Skylarks

by Karen Gregory

  Mrs H purses her lips.

  ‘It’s OK.’ Annabel’s moved forward at last.

  Mrs H looks between the two of us and sighs. ‘I’ll give you ten minutes, but if your father asks –’

  ‘You never saw me,’ I say. For a moment, her lips twitch, maybe in apology, and then she bustles off into the kitchen.

  I’m still breathing hard, my face all sweaty from the bike ride, like it was the first time me and Annabel stood face to face here. I wonder if she’s having the same thought as me. Neither of us speaks for an age.

  Finally, I say, ‘Dominic came round with the new contract.’

  Annabel nods, a question in her eyes.

  ‘Don’t worry, we signed it.’ I can’t help the bitterness that seeps into my voice. She winces. ‘I know you talked your dad round. Thank you,’ I add, but it’s come out wrong, still rough-edged.

  Annabel’s eyes are sad. ‘I’m sorry. It was the only way … a compromise, I suppose. You weren’t supposed to know … I …’

  ‘Is it for everyone? Or just us?’

  ‘It’s for the whole estate. And you won’t need to worry … New Horizons has some major donors. It won’t need to sell your houses like the charity did. I know it can’t make up for – I’m glad your homes are safe.’

  I look properly into her eyes now. ‘At a price.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How did you persuade him?’

  She gives a faint smile at this. ‘When you finally get up the courage to shout the truth, people listen.’ There’s a shadow under her eyes. I wonder how rough the last few weeks have been for her too.

  I swallow. ‘I know I should be grateful and I am. It’s just … it was for nothing, wasn’t it? The campaign. There were hundreds of us shouting our heads off for months, but it didn’t mean anything. He never listened – not to us.’

  Her eyes have filled. ‘I know. I’m so sorry. It’s not fair.’

  And the echoes of Jamie’s words, of my words, coming from her, break something in me.

  How can we be together when I still feel so small?

  My voice is shaking with the effort of holding back tears as I look at her. I reach out to touch her hand, just once.

  Then I pull back.

  ‘I’m sorry too,’ I say.

  The library shifts and blurs before me as I turn and walk away.

  EPILOGUE

  ‘She’s killing it,’ Ananya shouts to me over her cider. She turned eighteen last week, a few days after Christmas. We’re celebrating at one of Kelly’s gigs. Ananya’s sitting on Pete’s lap. It still seems weird to see them back together and so loved-up, but at the same time Pete looks the happiest I’ve ever seen him. Kelly’s over it, for the most part.

  We’ve had more than a few joint heartbreak sessions over the past few months, Kelly and me.

  Stacey and Ed are sitting close together on my other side. Nothing like being a complete gooseberry between not one but two sets of lovebirds, but I can’t really get annoyed. I love all these guys. Just wish I still saw them every day instead of once a week. But I guess it’s like Mum says; sometimes you’ve got to leave stuff behind before you can move forwards.

  Kelly finishes a song and we clap like mad, Pete letting out a piercing whistle between his fingers. Kelly blows him and Ananya a kiss. Then she launches into a new song.

  I take a sip of my drink and don’t look at Ed and Stacey’s linked fingers.

  ‘So,’ Pete shouts over Kelly – she’s going to kill him later – ‘did you get any more offers?’

  Stacey smiles. ‘I got into Warwick.’

  There’s a general screech at this – Warwick was Stacey’s first choice, as she’s told us a billion times. I glance at Ed to see how he’s taking it, but he just looks proud. Then again he’s going to Birmingham which isn’t exactly far away. It feels weird, knowing this time next year they’ll all have moved to uni. And I’ll still be here, doing the second year of my Land and Wildlife Management diploma. After all the stress about moving, I did in the end – at least to college. It’s a long bus ride, but I’ve been pretty lucky. Jamie managed to get me a job waitressing at The Olde Inne which helped. Despite the rent being back to what it was before, we still have plenty of money worries; I guess they’ll never really go away. Dad still hasn’t found a job, although he is now finally getting a bit of disability, since he saw a consultant who confirmed what we all knew: his back’s definitely knackered. The Mail backed off in the end, even if the disability benefits part of their story eventually came true. I guess they’ve moved on to some other poor bastards, but I wouldn’t know; Dad won’t let a copy cross our threshold.

  I try not to worry about it all as much these days. Mum sat us all down for a really long talk about how pulling together as a family didn’t mean we should be taking on all Mum and Dad’s worries. Dad’s been chatting about retraining recently anyway, doing something with computers, which I take as a good sign. He’s got right into Jack’s PS2. Shame you can’t play computer games for a living, because between Dad and Jack and me we’d be quids in.

  My phone pings with a notification.

  I pull up my blog, see the thumbnail of two skylarks twisting up into the sky.

  Edward Huntington’s blackmail with the contract may have had the exact opposite effect to the one he intended, because I’m definitely not keeping quiet these days. I’m careful not to mention his companies by name, but I still campaign. It’s not just us who almost got totally screwed over. Inequality is everywhere in our town, our country. Our world. And it’s not only about houses and jobs. It’s the environment, global warming, the way people and the planet are used up and thrown away by those in power. It’s all linked. Someone’s got to shout about it all. And people are. Once you start looking, people are fighting everywhere.

  A few weeks after I started the diploma, I found out about the farmers who’ve set up special nesting places for the skylarks. And the birds are making a comeback – their numbers creeping up every year. So I blog about that, and I badger Lattimer, still tragically our MP, and the Council to do the small things that will maybe one day add up to something big. I set up a local group and we meet every month, with the emphasis firmly on non-violent protest. So far, we’ve got more farmers to sign up to the conservation programme and we’re planning new conservation areas too. It was on the local news and I was interviewed and everything. My face still looked weird – clearly the faulty camera issue also extends to the TV. I’m planning a campaign to get some affordable, eco-friendly houses built around here too.

  I guess this last year has made me realise some stuff. Like growing up doesn’t mean you have to get used to life not being fair. And that things can change, if you keep trying.

  What with the course and work and the activism, I don’t exactly have much time to spare, but I think that’s probably a good thing.

  Stops me thinking too much.

  I still miss it all: the library, the gang, even school.

  And Annabel.

  There’s occasions, doing fieldwork on the Downs, when I look into the sky and remember her hair flying up behind her, or the feel of my lips on hers. How free we felt. For a long time, I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel like that again, but recently on the Downs I’ve noticed that old sense of expanding, fitting just right with the wind and the birds, is starting to come back.

  It makes me glad.

  Kelly’s still singing. I smile at her looking so natural up there. Last week round at hers she told me she’s deferring uni.

  ‘I’m going to give the singing a go,’ she said. ‘I’ll pack it in after a year if I don’t get anywhere, but I may as well try as not.’

  Looking at her smiling on stage, I don’t think she’s ever going to university.

  ‘I have one more song tonight,’ she says and then looks over towards our table. ‘I have a helper for this one.’

  Pete stands.

  I think I know what’s coming, and sure enough a moment later t
hey launch into ‘True Colors’. I listen to the song and for once I don’t let thoughts of college or activism or the million and one things that need doing at home fill my mind.

  Instead, I let myself feel.

  I feel the gap where Annabel used to fit, remember her laugh.

  The way her body felt against mine.

  Kelly and Pete finish and the whole place erupts in applause. She takes a bow, then hops off the stage and comes over to where I’m brushing away a tear.

  ‘That was beautiful,’ I say, and chuck my arms around her.

  ‘It was for you,’ she says in my ear. Then she pulls back. ‘Right, Joni Cooper. I’ve got something to say and you’re listening. Sit.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ I hold up my hands. ‘Should I be scared?’

  ‘You know what? You will be if you don’t stop.’

  I give her the sort of blank look I know drives her wild.

  ‘I get you wanted to prove something to yourself, but haven’t you worked it out yet? You are enough, Joni Cooper. With or without the campaigns – and don’t get me wrong, what you’re doing is amazing. But you’re enough without any of that. You always were.’ She gives me another hug and whispers in my ear again. ‘I reckon deep down you know it now too. Question is, what are you going to do about it?’ She lets go and walks off towards the bar.

  I stay at the table for the longest time, thinking.

  Then I step outside with my phone.

  Two days later, I’m standing on the crest of the Downs, right next to the boulder where Annabel lobbed that disgusting cheese.

  I scan the sky, but there’s no sign of any birds today. I pull out my phone to check the time. It’s ten past. I go back to gazing at the sky, willing a bird to appear.

  But none do.

  Twenty minutes past now.

  I close my eyes and listen for birdsong. There’s only the wind and my own breath. I think about the campaign and the skylarks and I wonder whether the little local things we’re doing will ever be enough. Maybe it’s too late to save them, let alone make the world the sort of place that’s kind to everyone.

  When I open my eyes, she’s running over the ridge, hair flying up behind her. I feel those invisible threads in the space between us, looping together, pulling tight.

  I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I realise now that courage will find you in the choices you make: to keep fighting, especially when there’s no guarantees.

  I step out to meet her.

  And I’m tall enough to brush the sky.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I am so grateful to all the fantastic people who have helped shape Skylarks. I could not have done this without your support. Thank you to:

  My agent, Claire Wilson, for your wisdom, patience and words of encouragement, and to Miriam Tobin and everyone at RCW for your hard work. A special mention to the wonderful Rosie Price, for all your support during the publication of Countless.

  My brilliantly insightful editor, Hannah Sandford, for always pushing me to take that extra step, and to Rebecca, Lizz, Anna, Helen and the whole team at Bloomsbury for being all-round amazing – it is such a privilege working with you. Thank you to Andrea Kearney for the beautiful cover design.

  My family, friends and most especially Naomi and William, for once again bearing with me during edits and the odd existential crisis. I love you all. Extra thanks to Lexi for quoting the bits you loved when I needed encouragement the most.

  The readers and bloggers in the YA community, for your generosity and thoughtfulness. It’s been a pleasure getting to know you over the last year. Thank you for everything you do for the books you love.

  Finally, thank you, Mum, for all the times you have been the quiet hero of the story.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Karen Gregory has been a confirmed bookhead since early childhood. She wrote her first story about Bantra the mouse aged twelve, then put away the word processor until her first child was born, when she was overtaken by the urge to write. A graduate of Somerville College, Oxford, and a project coordinator by day, she’s become adept at writing around the edges. Strong coffee and a healthy disregard for housework help. Karen lives in Wiltshire with her family. Countless was her first novel.

  CHAPTER 1

  The cigarette between my fingers is thin, insubstantial. Like me.

  I’m hunched up on a square of frozen grass outside Dewhurst House, waiting. Felicity is always late, which is a joke seeing as I’d catch hell if it were me.

  Her car finally rattles round the corner. I take a final drag, watch the lit end flare to my fingertips, then drop it next to the others as Felicity reaches my side.

  She pretends not to notice, instead saying, ‘What are you doing out here? You’ll freeze!’ in a fake jolly voice.

  We go inside, Felicity’s hand on my shoulder blade like I’m about to do a runner. Wouldn’t be the first time. Or she might be doing a bone check. We exchange a quick look and I duck my head down.

  ‘Do you want a coffee? You look cold. Black if you must!’

  Felicity’s rapid sentences are already giving me a headache. Bet she hates our sessions about as much as I do. Which is quite a lot, when it comes down to it. Still, she’s lasted longer than most of my key workers – two years and counting – and she’s all right really. Better than some.

  ‘So …’ Felicity leans forward with a Concerned Look on her face. ‘How are things?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘And how are you getting on at the Yewlings?’

  ‘Fine.’ I try not to let the sarcasm into my voice but here it comes – drip, drip, like it’s trying to form a stalactite. An image of my teeny flat in the Yewlings, Tower Block of Dreams, flashes into my head. I attempt a tight smile, the skin forming hard bunches on my cheeks. ‘Really well actually.’

  Felicity’s not buying it.

  ‘OK, shall we get it over with?’ she says, and waves her hand at the scales.

  I stand on them backwards, making my face into a mask like we’re in a play, and listen to Felicity’s pen scratch numbers down.

  ‘What have you been up to?’ she says.

  I crane my head round, trying to spot the figure she’s written, but she’s already shifted the book. I slink back to my seat and pick at a loose thread where the chair fabric is ripped and leaking bits of foam. I must have sat here a million times.

  ‘College?’

  I look up at Felicity’s expectant face. I’ve been doing this a lot recently, tuning out.

  ‘Sorry, what was that?’ I say.

  Felicity holds in a sigh. Barely. ‘I was asking if you’ve been attending college?’

  My silence says it all. I do mean to go, but half the time I end up circling town or staring out of the window until it’s way past the point where showing up might actually make a difference.

  I pull my hoodie down lower and curl my knees up to my chest. I can feel my stomach all wrong where I’ve pressed my thighs against it. I give the thread another tug and it comes away in my hand.

  I take a deep breath. I’ve put this off for weeks, but I’m going to go crazy for real if I don’t ask. ‘There’s something …’

  ‘Mmm?’ Felicity says.

  I start to wind the thread on my finger, count how many times it goes round. ‘It’s nothing really. I just don’t feel … right. Like, more than normal, I mean. I’m tired all the time. And there’s something else.’ I take another big breath then speak in a rush. ‘My stomach … it’s kind of swollen. I was thinking, could it be … Have I done something permanent, with Nia?’

  ‘Hedda, we’ve talked about this. You need to stop referring to your eating disorder by that name,’ Felicity says. Which is spectacularly missing the point in my opinion.

  ‘Right, yeah, sorry. But about what I was saying. Could it be … cancer?’

  ‘I don’t think … Well, we could certainly arrange for a check-up.’ Felicity gives me a closer look, frowns, then glances again at her book of doom. �
��Is there anything that’s concerning you at the moment? College, home, friends?’ I’m already shaking my head when she adds, ‘Boyfriends?’ Though she’s more or less smiling at this last one.

  I don’t smile. Instead, I feel my face go hot. Silence stretches as wide as an ocean.

  When I look up, Felicity has this expression on her face like she’s just seen Elvis. Slowly, she leans forward, and in a gentle voice I’ve never heard her use before she says, ‘Have you done a pregnancy test?’

  PRAISE FOR

  COUNTLESS

  ‘A heartbreaking, hopeful and highly unusual debut’

  Metro

  ‘Countless is written with empathy and deep compassion and we could all do with more of that’

  Bookbag

  ‘Moving and thought-provoking’

  Irish Times

  ‘Insightful, authentic and profoundly moving … This is an important, impactful, mightily impressive debut about love, reaching out and taking one step at a time’

  Lovereading4kids

  ‘Countless is a bold and brilliant piece of debut fiction’

  Books-a-Go-Go

  ‘Gregory writes with a realism worthy of Ken Loach’

  Inis Reading Guide

  ‘I inhaled this book. I was emotionally involved from the very start and couldn’t bear to put it down … Though Countless is heartbreaking it is also full of heart and it celebrates the power of finding your people and your self and the resilience to keep going’

  Rhino Reads

  ‘An emotive story of love and choices … is easily one of the standout debuts of the year’

  100 Words or Less

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